


Everything

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-10
Updated: 2007-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unfinished conversation finds its end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything

He's perfected this demeanor – a lazy smile, an ambling gait, even as his blood is singing with adrenaline not yet spent. Queries come in over his headset and he dispatches advice, doles out orders with a familiar drawl. Nothing suggests the anxious energy crawling in his belly, or the furious, inarticulate howl clawing at the back of his throat. He's keyed up within an inch of his life, and there's not a soul in Atlantis who could recognize it, who could see past the mocking arch of his eyebrow, the sardonic tilt of his head.

Save Rodney McKay.

"No, not really?" Rodney says the moment John walks into his quarters. His arms are folded, his mouth in a thin, betrayed line, and yeah – that's exactly what John's been looking for; a little blame, a little guilt, a lot of anger, the knowledge that someone _gets him_ , knows every last bit of that stunt he pulled was loyalty, sure, but bravado and showmanship and the sort of play he pulls when the chips are down.

"Shut up, Rodney." He brushes past him, knocks him with his elbow as he goes to the bedside table, rummages for Rodney's lube.

"God _forbid_ you say anything more meaningful," Rodney spits. "That your last words would be something someone could – "

"They weren't my last words now, were they?" John says through gritted teeth, shoving the tube in his pocket and closing the space between them.

"You're an asshole."

"Yeah?" And John grabs his face, pulls him in savagely and kisses him with everything he didn't say, couldn't, not with that kind of audience; not with his mind running over unfamiliar controls, calculating force and thrust and torque; not when he was pretty sure his number was up. Rodney gasps when John bites down on his bottom lip, lets John plunder his mouth, steal his breath, spin torment with his tongue. "Let's fuck," John says harshly when he pulls away, and before Rodney can do more than widen those big, blue eyes he turns him, pushes him hard toward the wall, forcing him to throw out his arms to catch himself. "Yeah," John whispers, fumbling with Rodney's belt, "like that."

"You're insane," Rodney manages, voice thready and weak, and John can feel each heaving breath he takes, his back pushed up against John's chest.

"So?" John offers before he bites down where Rodney's neck meets his shoulder, making him cry out and shudder as John pushes at his pants, his shorts, kicks his feet apart and pulls the lube from his pocket.

Rodney shivers when John breaches him with one finger, and John mouths hot, restless kisses to the nape of his neck as he fumbles with his own belt and fly. He isn't gentle as he opens Rodney up. His hand moves quickly, faster than it ought, and while he wants him slack and ready, he's not particular about how he gets him there. Three fingers, and Rodney tenses for a second before his head drops forward and his hands curl against the wall, searching for a better purchase than he's likely to find. His breathing's harsh – gasping, ragged breaths – and when John slicks himself up and pushes inside he keens, low and broken, before falling silent again.

They're more clothed than not – John's hands are half-filled with Rodney's t-shirt where they rest on his hips, and his pants chafe at his thighs with every rough thrust. He pounds into Rodney, relishes every hiss and undignified grunt he tears from the other man's throat, the way his arms almost buckle more than once with the force of John inside him; the way sweat's beginning to stain the back of his shirt a darker black.

"Nothing," Rodney says at last, voice strained and angry.

John doesn't reply, but slides a hand around to Rodney's cock, jerks him hard and fast, and thinks about ordering him to come, just to feel the taste of authority on his tongue again. But Rodney tenses, his muscles squeezing sweet, filthy torture around John's cock, and he's coming, pulsing in John's hand, and that's all it takes for John to come too, buried hip deep and straining for oblivion.

When he drifts back to himself he's stained and sore, his lungs burning fiercely – and Rodney's hand's tender against his face. They're curled together, a sprawling heap of shaking limbs on the floor; clothes messed up, their boots still on. Rodney's hushing him, fingers gentle against his cheek, behind his ear, down the sweat-slick line of his throat, and John shudders beneath his touch, one last body-shock of release and regret. "Everything," he whispers, his voice in ruins.

"Moron," Rodney murmurs with so much affection John's not sure he can bear it. But then he's gathered in, broad hands stroking his spine through his damp, wrinkled t-shirt, and his face finds sanctuary in the curve of Rodney's neck. He fumbles his arm around Rodney's torso, holds on tight, and curls a little closer into the warmth Rodney's body provides.


End file.
